Dude settled in, eyes drifting toward the dark horizon. “You know how Wolf met Caroline?”
Picasso shook his head. “I just heard he found someone.”
“Yeah.” Dude’s voice dropped a notch, taking on a weight Picasso had heard only a handful of times. “Team had time off. Wolf, Abe, and Cookie flew to Virginia to catch up with Tex. They flew commercial, booked late, got separated on the plane. Wolf ended up sitting next to Caroline. When drinks came around,she caught a smell, something off, and told Wolf not to drink. He signed to Abe and Cookie not to drink, either.”
Picasso listened despite himself.
“In the end, they thwarted hijackers. Caroline didn’t even tell them one of the hijackers had cut her side with a knife. That woman was strong as hell.”
Dude shook his head. “Wolf’s smitten, love at first sight. But damn, the idiot tried to let her go. SEALs can’t have relationships. Then she was kidnapped. They wanted to know how she knew about the ice. Sound familiar?”
Picasso’s chest turned cold.
Dude stared straight ahead. “They worked her over, hard. She didn’t give ’em a damn thing.”
For a moment, only the engine filled the silence.
“Point is,” Dude said finally, turning to Picasso, “Wolf called her a distraction. She messed with his clean lines. Changed how he worked. But she’s the reason he, Abe, and Mozart weren’t droolin’ in a hijacked coffin at thirty thousand feet. The right woman? He shook his head. She ain’t no distraction, Chief. She’s a force multiplier.”
Picasso stared at the windshield, Dude’s words settling like gravel in his gut.
The taste of pond water, thick with algae and fear, coated his tongue. He was twelve, all sharp angles and endless energy, standing on a splintered pier. “Dare ya to do a backflip, Tommy!” he’d yelled, his voice echoing in the summer stillness. Tommy, smaller than the others, always eager to prove himself, had grinned, launched himself, and twisted wrong. The sickening crunch of bone, the splash, then the eerie silence as Tommy floated face down. Picasso had screamed at his other friends to run, to get help, then plunged into the murky water, the bizarre calm of crisis settling over him. He’d held Tommy’s head above the surface, whispering desperate,meaningless reassurances to a boy who’s eyes were glazed over in shock and unbearable pain. Paralyzed from the waist down. Not dead, but broken. Broken because of a dare, a thoughtless act, a breach of every rule their parents had laid down about that pier. From that day on, the world resolved into a series of risks, a constant calculation of consequences. ‘Just in case,’ became his mantra. ‘Protocols’ his religion. ‘Control’ his only god. The image of Tommy’s limp body, the splintered wood, the shattered innocence was etched into his soul, demanding a lifetime of vigilance, a lifetime of never letting a variable go unchecked. Never again would he be responsible for a single, preventable fracture.
Force multiplier.
Gabriella had seen things he hadn’t. Pushed for speed when he wanted control. She got in his way, yes, but she also dragged him toward people he might’ve missed if left to his own devices. That little girl, Ana. The nebulizers. The buddy system.
“You sayin’ this is my fault?” Picasso asked quietly.
Dude didn’t flinch. “I’m sayin’ she went out there ’cause that’s who she is. Same way Wolf goes through a door first even when he doesn’t have to. You don’t blame a man for doin’ what he’s built to do. You just make damn sure you’re there when he needs a hand.”
Picasso let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Tex says traffickers move assets fast,” Dude added. “But Caroline held longer than anyone had a right to. Gabriella?” He shook his head once, firmly. “She’s built from the same stuff.”
The Humvee slowed as they approached their final turn. Ahead, the ghostly outline of the concrete plant loomed larger, jagged walls and a crooked conveyor tower etched against the night sky.
Suddenly the world jumped.
For half a heartbeat Picasso thought they’d hit a mine as the vehicle lurched sideways, suspension groaning, gravel spitting under the tires. Then the ground rolled again, a hard, nauseating shove that came from everywhere at once.
“Earthquake!” the driver barked, wrestling the wheel.
“Stop. Hold position,” Picasso snapped. “Stay clear of structures. Now.”
The convoy ground to a halt. Concrete groaned in the distance, a low, grinding roar that rose into a sickening crash. In the green wash of his NVGs, the plant seemed to ripple, dust pluming up in ghostly waves as chunks of the upper walls sheared off and disappeared into darkness.
“Wolf, status?” Picasso said, keying his mic. His voice stayed level by force of habit.
“Holding,” Wolf answered, a breath later. “We’re clear of overhangs. Took a shake but no rollovers. Roads look stable from here.”
“Camp?” Picasso demanded.
Mozart’s voice cut in, tinny with interference. “Perimeter’s still up. Got some tent collapses, generators flickered. We’re checking for injuries.”
Picasso braced a hand on the dash as another aftershock shivered through the chassis. The concrete plant groaned again, then settled into an uneasy stillness.
Great. A crumbling kill-box just got less predictable.
